


soft revolution

by evocates



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She smiled, tilted her head, and Eames was suddenly fascinated by the smallest glimpse of the nape of her neck that was exposed by her hair and the collar of the suit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	soft revolution

**Author's Note:**

> Done for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/5987.html?thread=9126755#t9126755) on the kink meme.

[She](http://img.blog.163.com/photo/9UtqrplzxWOxKLwbffIq3w==/5146769949154851379.jpg) was wearing black stockings with white high heels and a dark, dark pant suit that has been cut close to the skin. No earrings, he noted, even though the ears were pierced—and the most significant were the large pair of glasses that hid her eyes from view. Until she reached up and tugged them off, revealing large, amber brown eyes with light crow's feet at the corners, and she smiled at him with unadorned lips.

Cobb introduced her as Saito. _Miss Saito, from Proclus Global_ , and his tongue curled over the Japanese syllables, and Eames was only mildly surprised. He'd heard of her, of course—the lady President of Proclus, who insists on changing the name 'Chairman' to 'President' to accommodate her because 'Chairperson' sounds utterly stupid. The same person who took a homegrown, rather small Japanese energy company and made it a multinational, multibillion conglomerate, and who still hadn't reached fifty years of age yet.  
She looked thirty. At most. It must be those detestable Asian genes.

Eames took her hand and kissed the back of it, and Saito only smiled at him in a way that he was sure she was laughing at him. And he thought— _I am so completely fucked_ —but found that he didn't entirely mind.

***

"There's no room for tourists in this mission, Miss Saito," Eames said, and he couldn't help but let himself linger just a little longer on her name.

Saito turned to him, and her eyes were amused and knowing. "This time," she said, her accent thick and voice husky, "it seems that there _is_." Her eyes were fixed upon him, and Eames couldn't look away.

"Right, Mr. Cobb?" she turned to Cobb, and Cobb, who seemed to dive headfirst into a world of his own whenever someone wasn't talking to him or chasing him or shooting at him or all of the above, jerked a little, staring at Saito. She smiled, tilted her head, and Eames was suddenly fascinated by the smallest glimpse of the nape of her neck that was exposed by her hair and the collar of the suit.

"Right," Cobb said, frowning. "But it will be dangerous."

Saito's head dropped backwards, and her laughter was low and immensely amused. "I have not gotten so far without tasting danger," she said, and though her words were aimed at Cobb, there was just one second when her eyes flickered back—and looked straight into Eames's own.

And Eames had to make a concentrated effort not to shiver.

He was so, so _fucked_ —and this time, the thought was accompanied by a certain sort of almost-suicidal delight.

***

He couldn't stop looking at her.

Eames looked at everyone, of course. He took note of Arthur—still in his tailored suits, all dull flat colours without any sort of _imagination_ , but still terrifyingly efficient and detail-orientated, criticising and finding holes for them to fill so they wouldn't dig their own graves instead. He took note of Cobb—haunted and sharply so, with ghosts of his dead wife hanging around every corner, and guilt so heavy they weighed against his eyelids. He took note of Ariadne—sweet little girl with a mind sharp as a knife, and the most normal and yet most extraordinary of them all. He took note of Yusuf—the concealed brilliance beneath the eager smiles and the endless complaints about French weather, French food, French everything.

But there was no one he stared at more than Saito.

She didn't drop by often—she was a busy woman, after all. But when she did, she was always in a new pantsuit, always perfectly tailored, always showing off her subtle curves. There was also always a new pair of shoes. Sharp stiletto pumps, ankle boots, each of them brand names; Arthur had started teaching Ariadne to spot the difference, and Eames joined him sometimes—he just never told either of them that he never really cared, because all of them lengthened Saito's legs until it was as if they started from her elbows. She never did carry a handbag, only a small clutch, held between pale fingers and painted nails. Subtle, French-painted, whites and pinks.

Eames _wanted_.

And she knew; oh she knew perfectly well. She gave him tiny little smiles hidden at the edges of her mouth; flickering looks that disappeared the moment he took notice of them; fleeting little mentions of his name that had him whipping around to look at her—hard enough to give himself whiplash.

Yusuf told him that he was obvious enough that even Cobb was laughing at him. Not just normal Cobb with his easy smile and sharp eyes, no. Worse of all, it was Cobb in his permanent depression and eternal obsession over MalMalMalMal _Mal_. Eames had never met her, and he would've said that no woman was worth the effort of such attachment—but then there was Saito and he was so, so incredibly _fucked over_ and at this point he had given up the ghost of even pretending to protest.

He would wait. Until the end of this job. Then he wanted to feel the sensation of her legs around his waist; of those perfect lips against his own; of those eyes heated with lust. He knew she was married; knew that she was married and divorced and married again and divorced again, over and over with a series of husbands who couldn't keep up with her brilliance and her strength and her control. Husbands who couldn't take that they were known for being with her, and being with her alone. That their accomplishments would never reach hers.

Arthur lent him his file on her. They were extracting on her, before, and Eames wasn't surprised when he was told that Saito was one of Cobb's very, very few failures.

She just seemed the type of person.

***

[Roberta Fischer](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6bSd6Vypml8/Tv7GKcRYIqI/AAAAAAAAJPA/cxHjbcSGZ5g/s1600/Emily-Blunt-Hot-Pictures-3.jpg) was the picture perfect image of a tragic heroine. She had the palest blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and a smile that could send the world to its knees if she bothered to use it more often. She was tall and slender, blessed with curves that Eames took very sharp note of so as to use during his forges, and yet she stifled them all under girdles and pantsuits with padded shoulders in an effort to look wider, more imposing, more like her father.

To be his son rather than his daughter.

Rather than emphasising her femininity, Roberta Fischer had tried her hardest to strike the last a from her name.

She couldn't be more different from Saito.

(And Eames thought—the future of the energy industry rested on the shoulders of two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and though he read papers of people who might well have said that the apocalypse was nigh because such huge amounts of power was in the hands of women. He read, and he couldn't help but laugh and laugh, because they were also two of the most capable _people_ he had ever known.

No matter what Roberta thought of herself.)

Eames was a connoisseur of details. Roberta Fischer wore Chanel N. 5; Saito wore Hanae Mori's Butterfly, and he thought—that really said everything that needed to be said about their differences.

He shouldn't be thinking about Saito when watching Roberta—watching _Peter Browning_ , but Eames let himself get a little bit distracted anyway. Too much focus was conspicuous.

***

Saito was shot.

Eames was sure that he left bruises on Roberta's arm when he dragged her to the backroom, but at this point he really couldn't care anymore. They had tugged Saito out, and tentatively laid her against the miraculously still-intact windshield of the yellow taxi while she breathed sharp and harsh through her opened mouth, her hands clenching sporadically against the cloth in front of her chest. The bullet wound was a splash of red on the white dress shirt she was wearing, and Eames jerked his eyes to the side and cocked his gun.

And aimed--

And Cobb shoved him into a pillar, and Eames _exploded_ because Saito was in pain and she was their employer and she didn't even make a sound when she was shot and Eames wasn't sure how all of those facts connected to each other anymore, much less to this situation. He was shouting and Cobb was shouting and Arthur was shouting and Ariadne looked confused and Saito was _dying_ and they were all going to fucking die because Cobb wanted so badly to go back to his children that he was willing to sacrifice all of them for it.

Fucking hypocrite.

Eames hadn't been the one to carry her upstairs—Cobb had, and Eames had tagged behind, watching her legs clench and unclench sporadically. Hints of pain that she refused to voice—there was not a single sound of reproach against Cobb or even Arthur. She had simply been placed down on the windowsill, buttons tugged off as far as modesty would go. Her breathing was shallow, and Eames looked at her for a moment too long before he cast himself and his concerns for her and everything away.

He became Peter Browning, and went to begin the first step into destroying Roberta Fischer.

(The bit of him that he had cast aside wondered if _Roberta_ would be able to survive. It was a mild curiosity, because he wasn’t the type to really care.)

***

He couldn't say that he wasn't as surprised as Saito was when the elevator door opened. Eames had forged into a [tall man](http://files6.fliiby.com/images/_original/csmfdom124.jpg) with dark hair, green eyes, and a voice of chocolate. He had Roberta's wallet—not even allowing herself a purse, the poor girl—in his pocket, and he placed a hand on the door of the lift as he stepped inside.

"Miss Saito," he drawled her name, British accent out in full force. "May I have a word?"

He saw Saito's eyes widened, and her fingers brushed against his lapel, her lips parting—and she looked to her left, and saw his image in the mirror.

She smiled.

"If you wish for a word, _Mr. Eames_ ," the way she said his name made his breath catch in his throat. _Ii-mu-su_. "Then you merely need to ask."

He laughed, letting the door close behind him as he stepped fully into the elevator, "Good to see you well, Miss Saito."

Turning around, he punched a random number—high enough should be enough. He handed Saito Roberta's wallet, his lips quirked up. "Get out at another floor and get rid of it," he said, all-business. "The security is going to be after it."

Saito nodded, and the elevator _dinged_. Eames stepped out, and pretended to not hear Saito cough delicately into her hand behind him. Pretended not to hear the wet sound of the cough.

***

Eames loved snow. He loved snow and he loved James Bond and he particularly liked _Her Majesty's Secret Service_. It wasn't his fault—he was born in the generation and country where it was almost a crime to not love James Bond and Doctor Who and even Sherlock Holmes, just like in America where there were a lot of people who proudly called themselves Trekkies. At least Eames never called himself a Bondie. He had more shame than that.

But evidently he had made the wrong choice, he thought wryly, looking at the snow that cloaked everything in the distance. It was almost bright enough to blind, and he was very glad for the goggles even as he surveyed their team. Each level took out another person, and now there was only himself, Ariadne, Cobb and Saito left—and Roberta of course.

Roberta whom they were supposed to be working for. And protect. Cobb’s a bigger bastard than Eames could ever be.

"I can do it," Saito said, after an uncomfortable silence where there wasn't anyone else who could. She said it so matter-of-factly as if there wasn't a bullet in her lung, and Eames stood a little straighter even as he watched Cobb nod, and watched Roberta stare at Saito a little too long, as ifs he was puzzled.

He plodded over to Saito as Cobb drew Roberta's attention away, his hand on the small of her back and his shoulders a little too close to hers. Eames smirked to himself slightly even as he placed a hand on Saito's shoulder and just _looked_ at her as she coughed hard into her hand, her glove. Wiping off the corner of her lip, she nodded at him even as she was tugging off the glove, tossing it to the side, palm facing up.

The blood was stark red against the snow.

Eames obligingly made another glove for her, and didn't say a word.

***

"Saito isn't going to make it," Eames heard Cobb said; heard him but not saw him because he was staring at Roberta's face as she was sprawled on the floor of the hospital, mere steps away from where her father laid. There was blood on her lip, just a little bit—she didn't have enough time to cough up blood before the bullet to her heart killed her. She was just— _seconds_ away from ending the mission.

Across the room, the woman who started it all was lying on her side on the air vent. Saito was barely breathing when Eames rushed in. Her gun was still loose in her hand – she didn’t even have enough strength to hold onto it.

Cobb only shook his head, and Ariadne was barrelling on. They could do it, they could try, and Eames looked at the defibrillator in his hands and said-

"Go for it," he said, eyes steeling as he looked up to Cobb, to Ariadne. "But I'm taking the kick back whether you— _any_ of you—are back or not."

He didn't stay to watch Cobb and Ariadne as they put themselves under. Putting the paddles for the defibrillator beside Roberta, he rushed over to Saito. One of his hands cradled her head as the other one pulled her up. Her eyes fluttered open, and Eames was close enough—to count the blood specks on her chin and lips.

"Saito," he said, departing with all formalities in a hurry. "Saito. I need you to look over Fischer," his eyes glanced over to the body lying prone on the ground, just a few feet behind, "while I set the charges. The projections are going to head up here, and I need you to hold them off."

Saito breathes in low, her breath rattling at her throat. Her grip on the handgun tightened even as she flicked off the safety, and the hand holding on the grenade was white-knuckled.

She was so pale, so faded.

"No room for tourists on this mission, Mr. Eames?" she said, and her voice was almost, almost steady.

And Eames saw the woman who smirked at him the first time he met her; the same utter stubbornness, refusal to give in, and the unquestioning belief that she would get her way, always. No questions about it.

"Nonsense," he said, letting the laugh bubble out of him before he was standing back, backing away and running down the air vents.

***

When he came back, Saito was dead. He stood over her corpse and leaned down, closing her eyes.

Then, he went to Roberta, and set up the defibrillator—hard enough to shock. To give her her own kick.

***

Eames woke up with Arthur, Ariadne, and Yusuf. He was back on the airplane, and there was a crick in his neck from sleeping in the same position for too long.

Arthur was making motions at the stewardess, and Eames stood up, walking to Saito and sliding the IV out of her vein. She didn't wake—didn't even _move_ , and he wondered if she could still smirk at him when she awoke from Limbo. Then, he shook those thoughts out of his head, striding over to Roberta and sliding the IV out of her vein as well.

Arthur wound up all the wires. The stewardess tucked it to the backroom. Just in time, because Roberta was blinking open her eyes slowly, as if waking up from a long, long sleep. She pulled her chair up, shoved the window open, and stared out of it. She didn’t even look at any of them, deep in thought.

Cobb and Saito slumbered on. Eames tried to not look concerned.

Then—Cobb stirred. The barest shift of a hand, the tilt of a head, and he was breathing out slowly as his eyes opened. He looked around, but Eames's attentions were no longer on him.

Saito slept on her side, and she was staring at Cobb. A long, long moment passed—Eames could hear the ticking of the clock—before she was groping for the phone, pressing in numbers—and Eames breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against his chair a little more-

And then Saito turned and looked at him. Straight in the eyes. And her lips curl upwards, in a small smirk even as she lowered her eyes. Turned away to speak to whoever it was who could fix Cobb's charges, so he could go home to the children whom he had risked all of them for.

(Eames was a man who held grudges, in the end.)

But—it was enough.

For now.

***

Three weeks after the Inception job, Eames heard that Roberta Fischer was breaking up her father’s empire. It was all over the news, and Eames saw Saito again—her exquisitely made up face, her pencil skirt, stockings and high heels, seated in chairs that cost more than some buildings, giving Proclus Global’s viewpoint on Roberta Fischer’s move. About how she was, of course, buying the majority of Fischer-Morrow, due to her utmost respect and admiration to the company.

Eames finished up the job in Korea during the rest of the day, smirking to himself even as he sworn off eating _kimchi_ for the rest of his life. He boarded the plane on Saito’s airline, and stepped into the empty first class cabin.

“All hail the triumphant queen,” he said, and wasn’t surprised at all to see that she was seating at one of the seats, her heels off and her legs draped onto another seat.

He knew she was going to find him someday, and he knew enough to let _her_ find him. She wasn't the kind of woman whom he could impress by trying to woo her; she wasn't the sort who needed wooing at all. Or even wanted, really.

So he had let her come to him. Come to him until now—now when he walked to her, his legs bending such that he's kneeling at the end of her chair. His smile was a little sharp when he realised that her shoulders relaxed just minutely when he did.

"You knew I would be coming," she murmured, lifting an eyebrow.

"It tipped me off when I was the only guy in the VIP First Class lounge," he drawled. "And there’s the free ticket to a flight on your airline that mysteriously found itself on my hotel bed. How did you find me, by the way?"

"You are a remarkable man, Mr. Eames," Saito replied, and there was no clue whether it was praise for finding her out or an answer. It could be either, or it could be neither, and Eames figured that he didn't much care right now.

He laughed, pushing himself upwards and forward. "You’re a terribly remarkable woman yourself, Miss Saito," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her.

_End_


End file.
